One Afternoon's Diary

The quiet of the gentle rain a peace. Otherwise, the calm of the afternoon. Misted glass a muted witness to an alien, dreamy landscape that blooms out of nowhere. I write at my mahogany desk. The unbroken chain of visions, thoughts and feelings in a symphony, nothing gaudy, but graceful like the ceaseless sea that swells, falls, and breaks into nothingness, before starting again each time. I think of my childhood spent, long and boundless days, the school, the playground, and wonder how I come this far, or have I? Am I still that boy flying around with fleshless legs, down the cemented slope, the tall, steep stairs, to buy sundries for my mum, to that provision shop we called "Bata"?